


Blood of the Dragon

by ichaelis



Series: A Knight So True [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichaelis/pseuds/ichaelis
Summary: After Betha Blackwood married her beloved Egg, she thought her life would be perfect. Being free to marry the man she loved was not the chance that many women had, less still who can see the world. But her happiness starts to splinter when Aegon's father, Maekar, is crowned King of Westeros, and Betha finds herself without a child to carry on the family line. Fearing she will be replaced, Betha considers resorting to extreme measures.After spending most of his life roaming the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Duncan the Tall has settled into life in Summerhall, and develops an affection for Aegon's family. But for reasons he cannot explain, Princess Rhae, who had once been so welcoming, now refuses to speak to him.  Missing his once cherished friend, Duncan is intent on finding out why.A Knight So True 5/10
Relationships: Aegon V Targaryen & Duncan "Dunk" the Tall, Aegon V Targaryen/Betha Blackwood, Duncan "Dunk" the Tall/Rhae Targaryen
Series: A Knight So True [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097108
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Blood of the Dragon

Even in the height of summer, the Great Keep in Winterfell was a cold, foreboding place, full of harsh, heavy shadows and forgotten memories of times long past. In the South, the castles and keeps were made of polished stone, sanded smooth and finished with coloured paints, enameled gold and silver, and varnish, the walls covered in elegant murals and tapestries and the beaten shields of renowned warriors, lined with bookshelves full of thick tomes, and sconces to chase off the chill. In the North, the holdfasts were carved from coarse stone and left rough. The floors were covered in fragrant rushes instead of plush carpets from Myr, there were bearskins on the walls instead of silk tapestries, and there were few lights by which to traverse the tight corridors.

Still, there was a beauty to Winterfell, and the wild, frozen North beyond, that Betha Blackwood could not explain.

Kneeling before the hearth – so large that he could stand inside it – her husband, Prince Aegon Targaryen, scraped the edge of a flint stone with a knife, showering sparks onto the bed of logs and rushes. It took a few strikes, but eventually the old rushes caught fire and he blew on it to coax the flames higher. He stood, his knees popping in protest. It would take time before the room was properly warmed, but he could feel the heat on his palms when he held them over the hearth.

Gods he hated the cold. He never minded the heat. There was fire in his veins after all. But he couldn’t stand the cold. Ever since they’d crossed the Neck, the warmth had slowly, surely, fled him, and he couldn’t even remember what it was like not to constantly shiver. Betha wasn’t exactly warm, but the cold never seemed to bother her the same way.

 _It’s the blood of the First Men_ , he thought. House Blackwood hailed from Raventree Hall, in the northern riverlands, but it was said that they had once ruled the wolfswood before the Kings of Winter forced them south. Though Blackwoods like Betha were born and named in the Light of the Seven, they still kept the Old Gods, praying to pale weirwoods in their ancient forests in a kind of hybrid religion.

And, though they were officially wed in Summerhall, they visited Betha’s family in Raventree Hall not six months later on their way north towards the Twins. At Lord and Lady Blackwood’s request, there they were again married, this time beneath the heart tree in the middle of the godswood. There was no priest or Septon to proclaim them man and wife in the eyes of God. Instead, it was Lord Blackwood who asked if she accepted Aegon as her husband and lord. Hand-in-hand, they knelt in silent prayer. Then he replaced her maiden’s cloak for a bride’s cloak, and carried her inside for the considerably smaller, but no less exquisite, feast. It was a formality, but one that he was more than happy to perform to honour House Blackwood’s wishes. Besides, a second marriage meant a second consummation.

“Is something wrong?” Aegon asked once the fire was burning. The hour was late; most of Keep was silent, still. Outside the window, wolves howled, their haunting wails echoing into the clear night.

Betha sat in bed, her back propped up against the crude headboard of Lady Stark’s bed – Lord Donnor Stark had offered them his private rooms. They had refused, however, knowing that it was a courtesy, but took Lady Stark’s chambers instead so not to look rude. She twirled a black curl between her fingers. “Hm?”

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” she answered and straightened her nightshift. “It’s simply that . . . I was thinking about Duncan.”

Aegon arched a brow. “Oh? Should I be jealous?”

At that, Betha chuckled, letting the curl fall. “Of course not. You are the only man that I want – that I will ever want.”

“Good. I should hate to have to kill my best friend,” he laughed and crossed his arms, clutching the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off over his head, revealing a slender torso of tight, corded muscle. Betha bit her lip, watching as he kicked off his boots and removed his woolen breeches. Her brown eyes shimmered in the firelight, marvelling at his beautiful form, his broad shoulders and flat stomach, long, toned legs and tight backside. Even soft, his manhood was impressive, she thought, heat stirring between her legs.

But she hadn’t much time to admire the view; cursing the cold, he leapt into the bed, burying himself beneath the blankets. He cautiously emerged, the furs tight to his chin to keep out the chill. She was pleasantly warm and Aegon curled up around her, resting his head in her lap. “So what is it then?”

“That boy,” she said softly, “Little Will.”

“Ah . . .” He’d noticed too.

Before they wed, Betha had seen little of the world, and in the months that followed their betrothal, she had only seen Summerhall. Aegon was determined to remedy that, and for the past thirteen months, they’d travelled Westeros, taking time to visit every sprawling city, every small town and village on their way north to the Wall. There were hundreds of places that they had not seen – but there was no rush, Betha said. He was only twenty-one, she slightly younger at twenty. And without any children to consider, or lands to rule, they’d all the time in the world.

From Summerhall, they went North, to see the Wall before House Stark’s words came to pass: _Winter is coming_. It was still summer, to be sure, so they’d no qualms about spending several weeks in Storm’s End, King’s Landing, Rosby, Dragonstone and Claw Isle, Maidenpool, the Eyrie and the Twins and a hundred small towns and villages between. But neither of them fancied the thought of becoming trapped for months, or possibly even years, by the winter snows. They’d reached Winterfell a fortnight passed, following three weeks with House Hornwood.

Lord Stark welcomed them warmly enough, remembering the time Duncan had offered him his service and fought off the ironmen that had harassed his shores. Crossing the bridge that spanned the length of the icy moat, Aegon felt the years fall off him like a second skin. He recognized the faces of Lord Stark’s northmen: of the cook and kennel master, the maester and steward, and master-at-arms. And as he led his horse, Rain, through the inner ward, he recognized the comely woman perched precariously on the fence near the archery butts, beside Stark’s brother, Willam. A babe lay sleeping in the woman’s lap.

They were watching with amusement as four boys took turns on the butts, teasing each other every time a shot was better (or worse) than the last. Willam noticed them first, kneeling. “Your Grace,” he said, noting the Prince’s shoulder-length silver hair, the red three-headed dragon emblazoned on his black cloak.

The woman, however, leapt off the fence, taking Aegon’s face in one hand, and planted a big, wet kiss on his mouth. “Egg, my sweet boy. Look at you! You’re a man now.”

Aegon embraced Nymeria tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of the North on her. When he pulled back, he introduced her to Betha – “My beloved wife,” he said with a smile and held Betha’s hands in his own – making the former minstrel squeal with excitement. “I was so happy to hear that you had married,” she said, and regarded Betha with a smile akin to a mother’s.

“And who is this?” Aegon asked, stroking the baby’s soft head.

“Her name is Marna,” she said. “She was born six months passed.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Have you any children?” she wondered before she could think better.

Betha’s eyes clouded over, and Aegon’s lip twitched, but he forced himself to keep smiling. “No, not yet. But hopefully soon."

A boy, of perhaps four or five, ran from the stables then, letting out a high-pitched shriek as he sped across the yard, another boy on his heels, swinging a stick about his head like a broadsword. “Mama!”

The boy screamed and Aegon expected him to butt into him in the belly like a raging boar, only to fall onto his stomach in the wet mud, sliding between the Prince’s legs. Once through, he scrambled to his feet, hiding behind Nymeria’s skirts for safety. Aegon caught the bigger boy beneath both arms before he could run around him and held him tight against his struggling.

“Will! Adryan! Stop that this instant!” Nymeria shouted, paling. She clouted them both on the ear, reprimanding them for making a scene in the company of a prince. Aegon shrugged it off, saying that he was an impudent little boy once too – probably worse. Shuffling their feet, the boys mumbled apologies, begging Prince Aegon’s forgiveness. And as he stared at them, covered in black-blue bruises, mud and loose straw, Aegon was struck with a sudden realization that sent shiver across his neck and shoulders.

Adryan was average height for one of six or so years. He was reed-thin, with a mop of thin, brown hair that hung to his shoulders and a hawkish nose that matched Nymeria’s. When Duncan served Lord Stark, he’d still suckled at his mother’s breast – a bastard born of some northman or other; she’d never said who.

Will, Little Will he was called, for his father was named Willis and it helped to know who was who, had straight hair the colour of sunlight and narrow brown eyes. But most striking was that the boy looked to be two or three years younger (he still lacked several teeth, Aegon noticed when he smiled), but he stood only slightly shorter than his older brother, considerably taller than most toddlers. He stooped his shoulders, but not in shame. He simply seemed . . . uncomfortable and awkward in his own skin.

Nymeria was a tiny woman, and brown of hair, with long, willowy arms and legs. Her husband, Willis, had thin brown hair too, and was average height at best, perhaps short as men were concerned, stocky and barrel-chested. Betha hadn’t known Nymeria, but even she could see what Aegon saw: Little Will had not been born of Willis’s seed.

“We have to say something,” Betha insisted when they were alone in Lady Stark’s chambers later that evening, exchanging their muddy riding clothes for something more suitable for supper.

Aegon shook his head, trading his leather jerkin and simple white chemise for a black quilted doublet slashed with red silk and a pair of matching woolen breeches. “It’s not our place to say something. Besides, we can’t even be sure that he is Duncan’s son. Because his hair is blonde? So what? It might blacken in time. Or perhaps someone in the family had blonde hair.”

“Even you can’t really believe that,” Betha responded, combing knots from her wild curls with a coarse horsehair brush. “Besides that, he’s tall, and of an age as when you and Duncan served Lord Stark. You said that they were lovers.”

“They were,” Aegon conceded, snapping the buttons on his sleeve. “Still . . . Even if Duncan is Little Will’s father, it’s not our place.”

But clearly, it had not ended there, for it bothered her still. “You really think we shouldn’t tell?”

“Who would it benefit? Duncan? Shall I send a raven, ‘Arrived at Winterfell. It’s so terribly cold, my piss comes out in shards. Betha loves it though, crazy woman.’ Ow!” She pinched the top of his ear with her nails, but leaned over to kiss it better. “’We’re off to the Wall come morning. Oh, by the way; you’re a father. His name is Will.’”

“I’m not saying send a raven. But when we return to Summerhall . . . ”

“That won’t be for some time,” Aegon replied. His nose itched so he rubbed it on her thigh. “And we aren’t even sure that he is Duncan’s. He might not be.” But it was the timing. Duncan was Nymeria’s lover for two years before they left Winterfell. He’d visited her several times a week when they were not out fighting the ironborn or wildlings on the Gift. 

“He’s your best friend,” Betha pointed out.

“Which is precisely why I’m not sure that we should tell him. We both know Duncan – he’s too bloody honourable. If he knew that he was a father, he’d ride to Winterfell himself to care for the boy. But then what? What would happen to Nymeria? Would she want him to become involved? Maybe there was a reason she never told him. Maybe he’s not his son; maybe she betrayed him? Or maybe . . . I’m not sure. Who can know someone else’s mind?

“All I’m saying is that if Will is not his son, we’ll be causing him pain for no reason. And if he is . . . We might still be causing him pain.”

Betha combed her fingers though Aegon’s silver hair rhythmically. “What would you do if you’d fathered a bastard son?”

Fortunately, he need never find out, since he was as much a maid as she was when they wed, and he’d never strayed from her. “I’d like to believe that I’d prefer to know, so that I might provide for him – be there for him if need be. But . . . Perhaps it would be better not knowing.”

Betha’s black brows came together.

“I mean,” he continued, feeling her strokes hiccup. “Yes. He’s my son, and . . . I’d like to believe that I would be part of a child’s life no matter who he was, but what if that was not the case? What if he was born of a camp follower? Or a whore I’d paid simply to pass the time? If she came to me now, presented me with a child . . .” He pulled on a loose thread in her shift, balling it between his fingers. “I love _you_ , and I’m happy with you, and I’m not so sure that I would actually want a child that was not yours. I certainly would have no need of the mother. That must sound terribly selfish to say, though.”

“I know,” she replied, thankful that they wouldn’t ever have that problem themselves. She thought a man had the right to know that he was a father. A child had the right to know who he was, where he’d come from. But perhaps Aegon had the right of things – if she’d found herself with child from another man, would she want him in her life? Perhaps she would be happier raising the babe with her husband, pretending that it was his, regardless of the truth.

“And you?” Aegon forced himself onto both elbows. “Would you hide the truth or tell?”

“Are you asking if I’m pregnant?” She bent over, pressing her mouth to his, letting her curls fall free like black curtains over them. “If I was, I promise you’d be one of the first to know.”

“One of?”

“I’d need to be sure first, wouldn’t I?”

“I suppose . . . So, you’re not pregnant then?”

“No.” She sighed. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be? It’s not your fault. There’s still time. We need not worry. Besides . . .” He returned the kiss softly, freeing one hand to cup her cheek, his thought seemingly forgotten. “It’s so cold.”

“Mm.” She smirked. “There is one way that we can keep warm. Hit two birds with – ” Betha let out a delighted squeal when he grabbed her by the waist and dragged her beneath the thick blankets. He eased her nightshift over her thighs and chest, and cupped her breasts in his hands, massaging her nipples with his rough thumbs until they were hard. She spread her legs pleadingly, already slick with want, and he wasted no time entering her, feeling her shudder as she enveloped him completely. They were conscious of the fact that they were in Winterfell, guests in a foreign place, and made love quietly.

She had once believed, foolishly perhaps, that once they had made love the first time that that would be it; that every time together would be exactly like that first time: a familiar pattern of strokes and thrusts, a crescendo of pleasure that built itself up and released entirely on schedule. An experience whose magic would eventually fade.

But in reality, such could not be further from the truth. There were certainly some things that they had learned in the months they’d spent together, how to bring each other the most pleasure. But they experimented often, taking their time to explore each other with hands and mouths, and trying out various positions, so that each time was an exciting, new experience.

He’d learned that there was a spot where her head met her neck that, when he touched it, left her weak in the knees. So when he ran his hands through her mess of hair, he pressed his thumbs behind her ears. She threw her head back with a low moan, exposing her milky neck and he kissed her throat as Betha rocked her hips eagerly in time with his, whispering his name like a prayer.

She wrapped her legs round his waist, drawing him in deeper, silently urging him on. He obliged, increasing his tempo, listening to her shallow breaths. His stomach muscles tensed with impending release, so he slowed and waited for her to bury her face in his neck to stifle the cry that tore from her lips. She shuddered around him and he managed a few more swift thrusts before he was hit with a blinding heat and he spilled into her with a strangled moan of ecstasy.

He remained within her, the pleasant sensation of his release still pulsing through him. Nestled in their cocoon of warm furs, she kissed the top of his head, held him to her chest, running her nails over his skin in lazy patterns. “Better now?”

“I’m still cold,” he complained miserably, finally pulling out and curling up beside her. He closed his eyes, feeling the enticing lull of sleep calling him. “But . . . Yes. A bit.”

Within a few minutes, Aegon was asleep. Betha lay beside him, wrapped firmly in his embrace, listening to his steady breathing, watching his chest rise and fall. Her legs were still weak from her orgasm, her muscles relaxed. Coupling oft helped her sleep, but tonight she was wired, her belly fluttering, her mind whirling, and even Aegon’s vigorous love-making wasn’t enough to calm her.

Carefully, so not to wake him, she slipped free from his arms. He murmured softly, stirring, but she brushed her lips over his cheek with a hush and he stilled. Despite the fire, the room was cold compared to the warmth of their bed. Betha shivered, fixing her nightshift, and covered herself with a heavy, fur-lined cloak that hung passed her knees. She stepped into a pair of slippers, her toes sinking wondrously into the thick fleece soles, and made her way out to Winterfell’s ancient godswood.

Betha had visited the godswood of Winterfell almost immediately after they’d arrived. It was over three acres of ancient forest of ash, chestnut, elm, ironwood and pine, centuries older than the Starks that lived there. The trees were so plentiful, their thick branches created a canopy that blotted out the night sky beyond, and a bed of packed earth, humus and moss smothered Betha’s footsteps, leaving such silence that it was like walking into a Sept, and she held her breath for fear of incensing the Old Gods’ wrath.

At the center of the wood, a pale weirwood stood vigil, its trunk carved into a face that cried tears of red sap. At its base was a large pool of water, black like pitch. She found Lord Donnor Stark before the hearttree, kneeling with his sword laid out over his lap.

“Lord Stark,” she said when he heard the crunch of old leaves rustling beneath her feet. He raised himself to one knee, regarding her with a courtesy. She hadn’t thought to find him here this late. “Pray, forgive me. I thought everyone would be sleeping.”

“I might say the same,” Stark replied. Though he was civil enough, there was an edge to his tone and Betha felt like a child, set to be reprimanded. She started to turn and leave him to his prayers, when he seemed to appreciate how he must’ve sounded. “Don’t leave. I meant no offense. I sometimes forget that we northerners can seem harsh in our temperament.”

He shuffled to one side slightly, the breeze caused by his movements sending faint ripples over the black pool. “The Blackwoods keep the Old Gods – is that not so? You’ve come to pray, then?”

He offered her his hand to help her kneel, making certain that she would not trip on the hem of her nightshift. When she was settled, the Lord of the North returned to his own prayers, resuming the same, stone-faced expression she had seen when she’d walked in on him. In Septs, people of the Faith sometimes prayed together, reciting canticles or singing holy hymns. If not, it was common to hear the murmurings of petitioners before each of the altars. But no one prayed together before the weirwoods. There were no psalms to recite or songs to sing. There was only them.

Betha closed her eyes. If the Old Gods had names, no one remembered them. But it mattered not. She simply envisioned them in her mind’s eye – formless spirits of rivers and streams and trees and wind. Animals and plants and soil and air. All and nothing.

She was shivering, though it wasn’t from the cold, nor the fear of the trees. In the early weeks of their marriage, she and Aegon had made love several times a night, every night, and Betha was certain that it wouldn’t be long before her belly swelled. But the first moon turned, and her blood came, staining her bedclothes red. His seed had not taken hold. It was okay, she’d thought. There was still time.

But month after month, the blood came, and Betha started to worry.

In Raventree Hall, she confided in her mother, who comforted her, saying that some women found themselves with child immediately, and could bear child after child after child. For others, it took months – sometimes years. “It took Visenya Targaryen eleven years before she became pregnant with Maegor – more if you consider the time before the Conquest ,” Mother reminded her, though Betha replied that that was like to be because Aegon rarely visited her. It was said that for every night spent with her, the Conqueror spent ten more with his other sister-wife, Rhaenys. Though even she had had only one son.

It made no sense. Since they’d started travelling, there were nights when they were much too tired to lay together, preferring to spend their few hours of respite sleeping. But most nights they tried at least once, and he always came inside her, except when Betha pleasured him with her mouth, and swallowed his seed instead. So could the fault lie with Aegon then?

Had he been with women before her and fathered a bastard or two, she would have known with certainty. Yet, she was thankful that it was not so – the thought of him in bed with other women always made her heartsick. But it concerned her nevertheless. He was a prince, of the blood of Old Valyria. And his father, Prince Maekar, had been named King Aerys’ heir a few months passed, after Aelora Targaryen took her own life – no one knew why, but it was believed that it was related to her husband’s accident, and a banquet she refused to mention. Though Maekar would certainly name Daeron his heir when he sat the Iron Throne, and Aerion had a stronger claim still than Aegon or Aemon, his noble family would certainly encourage him to father sons to serve the King, to continue the House of the Dragon. If Betha could not provide that . . . He wouldn’t be the first man to be forced to marry someone else, someone with a quicker womb.

Beneath her cloak, she folded her hands over her belly, not wanting to believe it, and praying that, this time, her moon’s blood would not come. _Give me a child . . . Just one – that’s all I ask. Please . . ._

Eventually, her knees started to ache and she stood, her legs stiff with cold. Lord Stark offered to walk her to her rooms (he was not so foolish to believe every man in his service would behave himself if he saw her, regardless of the fact that she was the wife of a Dragon Prince), but she politely refused, saying that she was capable of handling herself, and bid him a goodnight. 

Aegon had not stirred, and Betha silently slipped back into bed, wrapping herself in his strong arms. Gods she loved him, she thought, and brushed a stray silver strand from his face. They would be happy together, child or no – of that she was certain. Though, ever still, she wanted one. She could think of no better way of showing him how much he meant to her than by creating life with him, making someone that was half her and half him, that they would cherish forever.

Resting her head on his chest, she closed her eyes, letting the slow, steady beat of his heart lull her into a fitful sleep.


End file.
